Case Studies
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: Naomi wants attention. L wants her... and wants her gone. LxNAOMI FICLET COLLECTION. RATED M FOR HARD LIME. DEDICATED TO ALCHEMIST EXPERIMENT.
1. Simplicity

Disclaimer: Never have before, and probably never will.

Author's Note: So many things I should really be working on, and yet, here I am. Working on this, and not working on them. Yea! :D

Dedication: This collection is dedicated to _theladyfeylene_ (on livejournal— AKA _Alchemist Experiment_ here on fanfic-dot-net), who's work in the LxNaomi fandom has not only made me incredibly happy, but also inspired most of these ideas.

Warnings: No real point or purpose to this ficlet, so don't expect a clever back-story relating to how L and Naomi got this far in their relationship. Sometimes, you just wanna write the fun stuff, you know? In the same vein, this is rated M for lime. X3

**XXX**

**CASE STUDIES**

_**A Collection of LxNaomi Ficlets and Drabbles**_**  
**

**XXX**

**#1: Simplicity**

**XXX**

"L," by itself, is an awful letter. She hates how difficult it is to pronounce: how it fights against her native tongue, giving her an obvious accent. She also hates the staccato articulation; to hold it out, one must either change the letter into a girl's name ("Elle") or risk sounding ridiculous (experience has taught her that there is nothing sexy about holding out a "luh").

Yes, "L," by itself, is an awful letter. Which is why—especially at times like this—that Naomi is thankful for her Japanese heritage: "Eru" is so much more conducive to sex. Easier to purr into his ear (nibbling on the lobe, feeling him squirm against and inside her); simpler to hold out, either in jest or in breathless ecstasy (the two syllable name becoming three, four, five, six, seven beats long, increasing with each thrust in and slide out, thrust in and slide out); more fun to pant, moan, squeak, and scream in the throes of passion…

And more than that, he's not "L" when he's "Eru"—not a detective, not a super-sleuth, not even a genius. He is simply a man, a man like any other: pale and exposed and trembling, fingers biting into her hips as his toes curl with pleasure. Just a man… mortal and strange and under her spell, hissing her name in his own native tongue: English. English so fast and fluent that even Naomi has a hard time following it.

But she understands the gist, and she loves the irony of the reversal: swapping languages as they exchange kisses and sweat, flipping positions and roles as he gives her control.

"L" would never surrender control; "L" fights to be the best, to win the round, to be on top. But he is not "L" right now: this is "Eru," the man—her partner. He trusts her. So she transforms in kind: she is no longer Misora Massacre, member of the FBI, detective and underling and leather-clad motorcyclist. Instead, she, like "Eru," is reduced to minimalist terms: she becomes nothing more, or less, than a woman.

And they are lovers.

In a world full of complex equations, unanswerable questions, cases to be solved and criminals to catch; confessions to garner, people to stop, problems to prevent; suicides and genocides and homicides and accidents; everyday difficulties ranging from how to afford food to what one might be planning for their future; from the quandaries that drive humanity as a whole ("What is the meaning of life?") to things as stupid as Naomi's personal inability to properly pronounce certain letters of the Roman alphabet ("L")… it is inexpressibly wonderful to remember (and re-remember) that truth— to truly appreciate the almost impossible simplicity of it.

_Lovers._

"_Eru—!_" she chokes, head thrown back and black eyes jammed.

"Naomi…" he breathes, biting back a groan. Her name sounds both familiar and strange when he speaks it now—the lack of an honorific makes her thighs quiver, and his faded British accent sends shivers down her spine. He reciprocates these nonverbal reactions with a hiss, a buck, a kiss that makes her head spin… and Naomi knows (even if the world never will) that they love each other.

Love, plain and simple.

She wishes everything could be that easy.

**XXX**


	2. Want

Disclaimer: I can't even afford _college_, let alone what it would take to buy the rights to Death Note…

Author's Note: This idea was inspired by a string of comments I read in response to one of theladyfeylene-san's fanfics. And it was so true, I had to write something about it…

Dedication: This collection is dedicated to _theladyfeylene_ (on livejournal— _Alchemist Experiment_ here on fanfic-dot-net), who's work in the LxNaomi fandom has not only made me incredibly happy, but also inspired most of these ideas.

Warnings: Hard lime (lemon-flavored, really), and more bitter than I usually write. (An actually attempt to stay IC? From _me? _I know, I'm surprised, too. X3)

**XXX**

**CASE STUDIES**

_**A Collection of LxNaomi Ficlets and Drabbles**_**  
**

**XXX**

**#2: Want**

**XXX**

He wants her gone.

More than anything else—more than justice, more than sweets, more than the desire to feel her warm flesh slicked and wet and writhing beneath his own—he wants her far away. Far, far away: to flee from his line of sight, to stay outside his peripheral vision, to remain constantly out-of-reach. For safety reasons. For professional reasons. But most importantly, for personal reasons: because when she gets too close to him (brushes against him with a manila file; touches his shoulder when pointing to a photograph; helps herself to a lollypop from his stash, working the rounded candy with her lips and tongue), he starts to notice her.

He cannot help it. He is… observant. And she is beautiful.

She piques his interest.

Like any other puzzle, case, or brain teaser, this feminine enigma fascinates him. The way she talks back, questions his authority; her stubborn streak, strengthened by intelligence and her own moral compass; the spontaneity with which she makes decisions and changes her mind, always keeping him on his toes. In this fashion, and in thousands of other nonverbal ways, Naomi Misora begs for his attention.

But L does not want to give her his attention.

It hurt her, the first time—she could not hide it from him. The way her black eyes (so different from his own: warm, like velvet, whereas his dark stare remains void-like and icy) widened with disappointment, embarrassment. As the silence between them became awkward, she looped a lock of hair behind an ear, straightened before his spindly chair, and simply stared at him: stock-still and thinking.

"…you liked it," Naomi then decreed, sounding convinced.

He remained as impassive as ever. "I did not kiss you back."

"I know," she agreed easily. "But you liked it."

And so she kissed him again, and again, and again, and continues to do so today, months later— and he tries not to notice. Tries not to taste the sweetness of her skin, breathe in the lingering scent of gardenia perfume; tries not to think about how unusually she'd reacted to his first rejection, or why she chooses to persist in these activities, or if she is ticklish behind her right knee, or what noises she might make if he licked her inner thigh…

He wants to know.

Even as she pushes his feet to the floor, even as she unbuttons the front of his jeans, even as she slips her bare legs through the hollow armrests and slides atop his lap—he wants to know. He wants to watch her as she helps herself to all he has to offer; he wants to commit her moans to memory, dissect each gasp, analyze the meaning behind every expression and murmur and head-toss…

Instead, he continues with his work, utterly expressionless: studying profiles and accessing webcams, typing emails and processing letters as Naomi clings and slides and kisses—easing in and out and up and down and using him as any other woman might use a vibrator or sex toy.

She baffles him. What makes her think she can do this? What gives her the courage? The audacity? What will she do if he suddenly stops her? Bites her? Grabs her, throws her down, and fucks her into the linoleum floor?

With every fiber of his being, L _wants to know_…

But he refrains. He ignores. He pays her no heed, no attention— allows her to finish with a feral sort of hiss, looping her arms around his neck and smirking (he can't help but notice the smirk, even as he reads the newest police report on the computer screen): taunting him for allowing this, for enjoying this, for releasing, for…

For something else. But he doesn't know what.

More than that, he doesn't _want_ to know. For if he learns why, if he someday knows, she might well and truly ensnare him in her web. And then, once trapped, he'd break—surrender—cave to her wishes. He'd give her the attention she craved… all of it. So much attention that she wouldn't know what to do: he'd memorize her mannerisms, uncover her thought processes, categorize her decisions, pick apart every little detail about her past, present, future…

He wouldn't stop until he'd figured her out. He'd work, deduce, and decode each strand of DNA that made up Naomi Misora, solving her as he'd solve any other mystery. And when he was done, she would just be another person: a person like any other.

Then L would get bored.

He would lose interest.

And he would leave her.

But he doesn't want to do that. He doesn't even want to think about it. More than anything else— more than justice, more than sweets, more than the need to screw her atop the computer desk, to then gently kiss her bruises away, to look straight into her midnight eyes and tell her that he loves her—L wants to stay with Naomi for as long as he possibly can.

And if that means never giving her a second glance, that is the price he is willing to pay.

**XXX**


End file.
